


in the web begin again

by tosca1390



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 14:42:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tosca1390/pseuds/tosca1390
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years, she tells herself with every ad, with every fitting; it’s only five years, and then she can disappear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the web begin again

**Author's Note:**

> This is a modelling AU? I don't even know. But I wrote it a year ago and forgot to post it over here. So, here we are.

*

It is the family business, in a sense. 

There are some who call it a form of exploitation, of prostitution; there are some that call it art. For Rukia, it is a business, a way of life. 

She grows up under the shadow of a sister with otherworldly beauty who ultimately destroys herself in the process of creating herself anew. It leaves a bitter taste in Rukia’s mouth, and in her brother-in-law’s; but there is a brand now, as the Kuchikis have risen, and someone must take up the mantle. 

It hasn’t ever been enjoyable, to allow herself to be stripped bare and corralled and laced too tightly by everyone and anyone. Five years, she tells herself with every ad, with every fitting; it’s only five years, and then she can disappear. 

*

Her first high fashion shoot is in the snow, in the woods, four years into her career, less than a year away from when she wants to walk away. At first, she thinks about not taking the job; but Nanao and her brother are nearly apoplectic when she says so, and so she accepts. It is an offer from Ichigo Kurosaki, the up-and-coming photographer, after all. 

“He’s all about realism, my brother,” Kaien drawls in their shared dressing trailer. The make-up artists are applying silver dust to the sharp rise of his cheekbones. It’s a winter fantasy styling, a new reaching out for Rodarte; Rukia is the only unknown to be a part of the job, and it keeps her on edge. 

“No fake snow for him, then?” she murmurs. Ishida catches her glance in the mirror, his fingers tangling through her dark curls, setting them along her shoulders, and grins. His fingers are warm and reassuring against her shoulders. 

Kaien laughs, low and hearty. He looks as if a snow king; that is the point, she thinks. “Hell no. We’re all going to catch pneumonia, but it’s going to look _real_.”

She shifts on her heels, looking at herself in the mirror. Ishida is fussing with her, fixing the flush of her cheek, the pink of her lip; her face is natural, a stark contrast to Kaien’s. The gown catches and moves like ice in the light, a second skin over her torso and draping and settling from her waist to her feet. It’s a beautiful concoction of the different colors of snow; sometimes blue-ish white, sometimes silver. She thinks she doesn’t look like herself. 

“I admire that,” she says at last, as Ishida pushes at her hips towards the door to the outside. It’s a grey day heavy with clouds; fresh snow crunches under her heels as she walks with Kaien and Ishida towards the set-up deep in the shadows of the bare trees. “It’s honest.”

“It’s insane,” Kaien mutters, grinning and waving at the other models on their shoot. 

“It’s Ichigo,” Ishida adds airily. “Oh lord, I think he’s trying to make it snow.”

Rukia tucks her skirt into her hands and looks ahead. Ichigo Kurosaki is there, a cigarette dangling from his lips, hands moving in quick precise movements towards his assistants. They shift the snow, the tree branches collected from the ground, scoop fresh snow into their jacketed arms and dump it into a waiting wind machine. 

Next to her, Ishida sighs and shudders. “You cold?”

“No,” she murmurs. The sleeves of the dress billow like air to her elbows, but she is not cold. She keeps her gaze set on Ichigo, a man she has never worked with but has heard everything about. 

“You will be cold,” Kaien says, draping his jacket over her shoulders. 

“Hey, watch the hair, asshole,” Ishida snaps good-naturedly, pulling her dark curls out from underneath the collar of the jacket. 

Rukia lets the heavy suit jacket sit on her shoulders as they approach the set. Nanao sits bundled up with her coffee and her pencil tucked behind her ear, watching evenly as she always does for every shoot and add; it’s a blessing, to have a friend and a hard-liner as an agent. 

“Took you long enough, eh?” Ichigo shouts as they approach. 

Kaien flutters a hand in his brother’s direction, his newly-cropped hair shifting in the breeze. “If you’re cold, we could always go to an actual set.”

“This is an actual set,” Ichigo retorts, his gaze settling on Rukia. She can feel something warm and unfurl in her middle as he looks her over. “Yeah. I like it,” he says, waving her towards the snow. 

“So little appreciation for all my hard work,” Ishida laments as he slides the jacket off her shoulders and hands it back to Kaien. 

She looks up and smiles at him slightly. “I appreciate you.”

Ishida leans over, barely brushing his lips at her cheek. “Oh, I know you do. Go on, make me proud.”

It’s a reminder of what this shoot is for her, apart from another job and another opportunity; she wants to make all of them proud, and not just because she’s a Kuchiki, but because she is something more than her sister’s near-replica. 

*

The shoot is two days, multiple models, multiple outfits. She keeps to the fringes unless directed otherwise; it’s where she belongs, with company such as this. Kaien is clearly the star of this show, him and his usual partner model Orihime, tall and lovely together in the snow. It’s a strange shoot, friendly and warm and strict all at the same time, but she likes it, has fun with it. She takes the time to watch Ichigo, the upstart photographer taking this world she’s always known by storm, and she’s silently impressed. He has an eye for light, for composition, for interest; he’s sometimes brusque, but never unkind. He has his favorites, she thinks.

At one point, though, Ichigo has her alone in the frame. 

It’s nighttime, near the end of the second day. The other models have been let go, sent back to their trailers to warm up and get ready to drive back to the city. Now, it’s just her and Ichigo and his crew here, a light snow falling and catching in her hair. She can’t feel the tips of her fingers but she says nothing as she shifts in the low curve of the tree, her arms draped over bare branches and bark. Her dress, an icy sheen of silver-blue, wraps in lacy billows at her legs and her throat, her hair a dark straight contrast. 

“I’ve never had more fun with your hair than over these two days,” Ishida says with a sigh as he fusses over her. Behind him, Ichigo shouts for a different lens. 

“Even more fun than the night you tried to give me dreadlocks?” she asks dryly, straightening her shoulders. 

“How drunk was I? I barely remember that,” he retorts with an easy smile. His rapport with Ichigo is enviable. She wants to know more, but doesn’t know how to ask. 

Rukia laughs, tilting her head back with it. She can feel the snowflakes on her cheeks, her lips. She should be cold, but it feels strangely like home. 

Ishida’s hands drop away from her and she can hear the click, feel the flash against her skin. Her body tenses. 

“Don’t move,” she hears from near her, below. There’s the crunch of well-trodden snow in her ears. She can feel a flush on her throat, her skin pink not from the cold. 

“The color suits you,” Ichigo murmurs as he snaps frame after frame. 

She wets her lips, eyes open and chin tilted towards the sky. The bare trees branches creep over her, dark against the grey cloudy sky. “Ishida is good at his job,” she says softly. 

“Or you’re just pretty on your own,” he says, and she thinks she can hear a smile in it. 

“Don’t tease me,” she says after a moment, voice even. 

She can hear him move, the snow hard under his feet. Suddenly his hands slide over her cheeks, tilting her head back down. Her gaze meets his, dark and amber in the strange snowy light. 

“I’m not. You look –“

“Like my sister?” she asks dryly. 

Ichigo’s mouth turns and curls. His hands fall from her face to her arms, shifting them to her sides. Her fingers tuck into the loose soft folds of her skirt. He pushes her back against the tree, her spine fitting to the line of the tree. 

“No. You look perfect,” he says after a moment, sliding easy fingers through the ends of her hair. “Keep your eyes on me,” he adds as he backs away, grip sliding over the camera around his neck. 

Flushing, she keeps her gaze set on his. She can’t help the slide and press of her teeth against her bottom lip, the crest of the color on her cheeks. Her chin is even; there is nothing coy in her posture. She doesn’t know how to be coy, be anything of the coquette her sister was. 

From the slight smile on his face, she thinks he doesn’t mind. 

After, cold to the touch, she shivers her way through the snow towards her trailer. A coat slides over her shoulders, warm leather and soft to the touch. 

“Here,” Ichigo says as he stands next to her, ankle-deep in snow. Without the jacket on, she can see the ponytail loose at the nape of his neck, that strange bright hue that not even Kaien has. It’s an easy way to tell them apart. 

“Thank you,” she says, tucking her fingers into the gaping front of the jacket and pulling it around her. 

“You’re different from your sister, you know,” he says, stopping her with a hand on her shoulder as she starts to walk away. “She’d never do a shoot like this. She was all commercial.”

“And I’m not?” she asks flatly. Hisana is a tender spot, even five years past her death. 

“You could,” he says with a shrug. His gaze is very dark. “But you’re different.”

She wets her lips and moves away slowly. “Thank you,” she says softly, cheeks hot. 

He smiles that strange small crack of a grin, and walks away, back to help pack up the equipment. It’s the last she sees of him for months. He doesn’t even come back for the jacket. 

She’s not sure what it all means, but he leaves her confused. 

 

*

New York is wet and cold in March. It leaves a damp ache in her bones. 

“Never thought I’d like you in leather,” Ishida teases from his perch at the island in their kitchen. The apartment is space enough; they’re paid well, but she’d rather not live alone, after years of big empty houses and cold parties she never liked. 

Rukia knots her hair at the nape of her neck, scowling. Ichigo’s leather jacket is habitual now; it’s nearly become a calling card on her jobs for the last two months. “It’s good in the rain,” she mutters. 

“Uh-huh,” he drawls. He works with Ichigo often, and yet there’s never been a mention of it between them. It makes her wonder. 

“I’ll be back for dinner. Want me to pick up sushi?” she asks as he presses her travel mug of tea into her hand. Her bag, black and leather and matching her jacket, slips over the curve of her shoulder. 

“Where’re you off to in such a hurry?”

“Agency meeting,” she says, slipping her shoes on near the door. 

Ishida makes a face and she smiles slightly, shrugging. It’s a check-in with her brother-in-law, and Nanao, and Aizen, the head of the agency; she knows she’s not working as much as she could be, but her five-year deadline is approaching, and she feels herself wanting to slow down, explore another kind of life. Whether Aizen will go for it or not isn’t any of her concern. 

“Go to the store while I’m gone. We need more wine,” she calls as she opens the front door and runs smack into Ichigo Kurosaki, hands stuffed into his jeans pockets. 

She flushes, and he cracks a smile. “When don’t you need more wine, really?” he drawls. 

Suddenly, she is very aware of his coat, overlarge on her arms and shoulders. “Hi,” she says dumbly. 

“Yo,” he murmurs, eyes bright today. His hair is dampened dark with rain, pulled back into his usual loose ponytail at the nape of his neck. Stray bright strands stick to his throat. “I didn’t know you lived here.”

“Well, I do,” she says, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. 

His smile is white and sharp. “I’m glad to know at least two of my new neighbors, then.”

“Neighbors?” she asks, startled, as Ishida comes from behind her and shouts. 

“Where the hell have you been?” he exclaims, pushing Rukia aside to grab at Ichigo’s arm. “Get in here. I’m starving for work and news.”

Rukia uses the opening to duck around Ichigo and hurry down the hall to the elevator. Her palms are damp at the strap of her bag, the nape of her neck warm. 

Later, when she comes home annoyed from her meeting with bags of sushi and wine (she can never count on Ishida to get the kind she likes; she’s a little picky), Ichigo is still there, sprawled out on the sofa, a cigarette in his mouth. She can hear Ishida in his bedroom, humming. 

“You could at least open a window,” she says, stalking into the living room and pushing up the window. Cool air curls around her, rainy and sharp against the tang of the cigarette smoke. 

“You don’t partake?” Ichigo drawls, eyes heavy on her. 

“I don’t do drugs,” she says shortly, hands on her hips. Her hair curls out and loose from the elastic band at her neck, heavy with rain. 

“Because of your sister.”

“Just because,” she says, moving back into the kitchen. His leather jacket slides over her wrists as she opens the bags and sets out the containers and the wine. “Joining us?”

“If you don’t mind,” he calls from the living room. 

She does, but she doesn’t say anything. Change, abrupt shifts, they’re hard for her to handle easily. It’s better to focus on small tasks, like the uncorking of the white wine and the peeling away of chopstick wrappers. 

Suddenly Ichigo is behind her, his hand at her hip, his knee near hers. “I was at your agency yesterday.”

Wetting her lips, she slides her fingers around the stem of her wine glass. “What for?”

“To show Nanao the pictures from our shoot. And to request you for my shoot next week.”

At that she turns, mouth pressed to the rim of her glass. “Me? What job?”

“Tom Ford print ad. Just you,” he says, gaze soft. 

The color rises on her throat, her jaw. “Oh,” she murmurs. 

“You were there today. Nanao said she would talk to you,” he says, brow furrowed. 

“We didn’t get that far,” she says shortly, turning to pour two more glasses of wine. She hands one to him and leaves one for Ishida, sliding to a seat on one of the stools. The apartment is cool from the cracked-open window; rain lingers at her hairline. 

Ichigo leans a hip against the island, watching her carefully. She feels peeled-back, exposed, as if they are back against that tree, his hands in her hair. “Aizen wants another contract out of you,” he says after a moment. 

Her grip tightens around her glass. She pushes at a cucumber roll with her chopsticks, the flush heavy on her cheeks. “How do you know about that?”

“I hear things. Models talk,” he shrugs. 

“So Ishida told you,” she says dryly. “How do you know each other anyway?”

“Old friends,” he says. “So? Aizen, huh?”

It’s strange, she thinks as she watches him pull open a plastic container and dig into the sushi. His asking isn’t so odd to her, and she doesn’t mind. Just as she felt easy with his hands on her face, the ease with which he called her _perfect_ – she remembers, and shivers still. 

“I promised myself I’d do something else,” she says slowly, listening to the run of the shower in the bathroom, Ishida’s incessant whistling. “I’ve never really like this job, but there was – well, it’s a brand. My brother is caught up with Aizen, and I’ve given them five years. Now, I want to be done.”

“And do what?” he asks, mouth full of rice and strips of carrot and cucumber. But his gaze is serious and he leans in closer. She can see flecks of gold in the amber of his eyes. 

She sips at her wine, still playing with her first roll. “University. Fencing. Anything, really,” she says quietly. 

He hums; it’s thoughtful, easy, as is the silence they settle into. “Well, you shouldn’t work for Aizen anymore, no matter what. He’s a jackass.”

“I don’t want to work for anyone except myself,” she murmurs, tucking his jacket closer around her. Her boots clink on the footholds of the stool. 

Ichigo smiles slightly, leaning in even further. The curling ends of his ponytail slide over his shoulder. “I’d miss not having you around, though. Your prints – they’re –“

He pauses and pushes off the island. She watches with no little curiosity as he digs into his leather messenger bag sprawled at the foot of the coat rack and pulls a manila envelope out of it. “I don’t have to tell you. I can show you,” he says with a cheeky grin. 

She shifts the sushi out of the way as he pulls the prints from the envelope. They are lovely, striking in the snow and the shifting shadows of the woods; the last five are of her, alone against the tree, her eyes staring directly into the camera. She doesn’t look like herself, yes; but she doesn’t look like Hisana either. It’s the first time she’s ever felt truly happy with a shoot such as this. 

“You must be pleased,” she says softly. Their heads are bowed close together. “The dresses are gorgeous in this setting.”

“It’s more than the dresses, Rukia,” he says, voice very low. 

She looks up, meeting his gaze. Their fingers graze and catch over the edges of the photographs. “Is the offer still there?” she asks after a moment. 

He tilts his head, eyes darkening. “Tom Ford? Yeah.”

“I’ll take it,” she says quietly. 

The curl of his mouth is familiar, and warms her through. 

*

“I was _going_ to tell you about the Ford job,” Nanao sighs over the phone. “But then –“

“I know, I know,” Rukia murmurs from her seat on the sofa. It’s two days later, and Ichigo is still _here_ , entangling in their lives. He sleeps on the couch and makes coffee and tea in the mornings and invades her closet, and has yet to mention the jacket. His stuff is slow to arrive from the old apartment, apparently; she can’t help but wonder if he’s lying, but why would he? “But I want it.”

“I don’t know if Kurosaki found someone else.”

“He didn’t,” she says, peeking over the back of the sofa. Ichigo, sitting at the island, his hair loose at his throat, grins at her and waves a tall tumbler of vodka and tonic at her. Plates of salad and Chinese takeout from down the street wait for her. “I ran into him a few days ago and he asked me about it.”

Nanao whistles, gives a little sigh of relief. “Thank god. I don’t need you shooting yourself in the foot this soon.”

“Hey,” Rukia murmurs, eyes lingering on Ichigo. “I know a good thing when I see it.”

“Which is why you’re so keen on quitting _now_ , just as people like Kurosaki are starting to notice you,” Nanao drawls. 

“I have to go,” she mutters, flushing. 

“Is it all set up?” Ichigo asks as she drops her phone into her jeans pocket and rises, moving into the kitchen. Ishida is on a date tonight with a cute blond bartender at their favorite place, despite her repeated pleas not to go and risk ruining their favorite bar. So it’s just the two of them here, and it feels normal, easy to sit next to him at the island and reach across for her drink. 

“It is,” she says, sipping at her wine. Her fingers pluck at an egg roll. “Thank you.”

“Hey, I know what I want,” he says with a shrug. 

They eat in comfortable silence, which is different from the last two nights. Ichigo has spent every meal so far digging for any and all information about her life, and she in turn has plied details about him from an all-too-willing Ishida. They are familiar with each other now; he feels like a friend, which is strange. She’s not used to friends, except for Ishida and Nanao. 

“So you like my jacket, huh?” he asks after a long spell of quiet, nodding to the coat rack. 

The blush rises on her throat immediately. She brushes her hair, curling at the ends today, in front of her shoulders, a defense. “I should have tried to get it back to you. I’m sorry –“

“Rukia, stop it,” he says with a grin, waving his hand at her. “I don’t care.”

“It’s a nice jacket, though,” she says plainly. “I imagine you do care.”

His gaze darkens, mouth curling at the corners. “Maybe I just think it looks better on you.”

Her mouth suddenly dry, she takes a long swallow of her wine. “It’s a little big,” she murmurs. 

She can hear the clink of his glass against the counter, and suddenly his hand is at her wrist, pulling under the cuffs of her sleeves. “It looks better on you,” he repeats, voice low. 

Keeping his gaze, she breathes through the constriction in her throat. “I don’t want to be one of those models anyone thinks they can sleep with,” she says quietly. 

“When have you ever given that impression?” he asks, very seriously. 

“I’ve tried not to.”

“And do I seem like the kind of photographer that sleeps with any model around?” he asks, his fingers an easy weight on her wrist. 

She can feel the flush on her throat, the strange warmth unfurling in her belly. “No. But I just – “

He leans in and kisses her, his mouth soft and light on hers. It’s instinct to shut her eyes and reach for the collar of his shirt, her knuckles grazing the strong line of his throat. Outside, rain still patters against the windows. 

“I like you, Rukia,” he says, mouth very near to hers. “I like you, and I want to take you out for dinner.”

She watches him carefully, taking note of the change in his eyes in the light. It’s been so long since she’s taken a risk, done anything except toed the line as expected, and held up the brand of the Kuchikis, of her sister, of the agency. 

Wetting her lips, she curls her fingers into the wrinkled collar of his shirt and pulls him back in, kissing him again. Her lips part against his, her tongue soft at his mouth. His hand slides into hers on the counter, his fingers warm against hers. 

“There are conditions,” she says after a moment, slightly breathless. 

She can feel him smile at her cheek. “I’m not surprised. Can we talk about them later?”

“You don’t want to hear them first?”

He shrugs, his other hand cupping her cheek, catching lengths of her dark hair against her jaw. His gaze is steady, his face set in serious lines. “I accept them, no matter what,” he says before kissing her again, his teeth gentle at her bottom lip. 

It’s a long time before she has enough breath to talk again.

*

The conditions (only two) are simple, if a little hard to maintain. 

First, nothing will happen in terms of going public. She knows enough of his career and of the atmosphere that it’s better for him to appear single, and she doesn’t want the dog and chase of her peers and others. It’s also a matter of not wanting to seem as if she’s sleeping with him for work, which he scoffs at, but she knows is all too easy to assume, in this environment. 

Ichigo grumbles a little, but he accepts fairly easily. Ishida is the only one to know of them, because it would be pretty impossible to keep it from him, and they trust him. The fact that he sheds a tear and claps when he finds them making out on the couch the Friday after Ichigo moves into the apartment next door helps makes the decision for them, in any case.

Second, nothing happens in work situations, especially if she is on his shoot. It sets a bad precedent and makes it too easy to be found out. She is determined to finish her contract out in a professional manner, as befits a Kuchiki. 

The Tom Ford shoot, a month into their relationship, is the first test of this. 

They fail spectacularly. 

*

“Stop,” Rukia breathes, pushing at Ichigo’s shoulders. Her fingers catch in his hair and she tugs, trying to bring his mouth away from her throat. “Someone will _hear_ –“

“It’s sheer black lace, what do you expect from me?” he groans against her throat. His weight is heavy against her, pinning her to the door. It’s an indoor shoot this time, in the ornate halls and ballrooms of one of New York’s fancier mansions. They’re between sets, his staff setting up alone. 

His hands slide over her thighs, rucking the skirt of her dress over her knees. She bites her bottom lip hard and pushes her head back against the door, her fingers unraveling the loose ponytail and weaving through his hair. 

“Don’t you – don’t you bite me – “ she hisses as she feels his teeth graze over her skin. 

Ichigo meets her gaze, mouth curling into a dangerous smile. He looks positively devilish; her stomach swoops even as her toes curl in her heels, a shiver running right through her. 

“What about somewhere they won’t see?” he teases before he drops to his knees and folds the lacy skirt over her thighs.

She puts her fist to her mouth as a precaution. He slides her leg over his shoulder, resting there on the leather of his jacket. His mouth slides slick and warm over her bare thigh and she’s not wearing anything underneath except for an uncomfortable thong because that’s all she _can_ do with this dress, and soon his fingers are sliding between her thighs. His thumb edges along her clit and she bites into her knuckles, breasts pressing hard against the trussing of the dress. 

“Tom Ford would _murder_ you right now,” she breathes through a moan, her free hand fisting in his hair. 

He grins against the inside of her thigh, two fingers curled in her, easy and slick. “I think he’d like that it was so ready-to-wear tested,” he says, voice muffled. 

She almost laughs, but then the flat of his tongue slides over slick wet flesh, easy at her clit, and she bites down in earnest, the moan low and thick in her throat. He’s murmuring against her and she can’t help the whispered inching out of his name from her lips as she comes, pinned to the door of her dressing room with staff and assistants just feet away. 

Ten minutes later, Ichigo is all professional and business-like as she steps in front of his camera. 

Every time he licks his lips, she has to bite the inside of her cheek. Her toes curl in her shoes, and she knows she’s lost this battle, at least. 

*

Soon, she’s thinking further ahead in a way she never has before. 

Eventually, the circle widens; she tells Nanao, after five months and she’s spending more nights at Ichigo’s than she does in her own apartment. He tells Kaien, who smirks and crows _I knew it_ over and over when they have him over for dinner. That’s as far as they let it go; it’s a point of contention between them, but the compromise is what it is. 

Things settle, and then they rise. Ichigo goes to Paris for a month and she sees the fashion bloggers track his movements with the models he is working with. It bothers her, even as she tries not to let it; the conditions are hers, and hers to change. He tells her that all the time. 

She does a few smaller print jobs, but as in demand as she is in after the Rodarte and Tom Ford ads, she’s tired of it. Her contract is up in December and she feels as if she’s counting down the days until she can be free to be herself, and be with Ichigo without any sort of strange biases or professional consequences. Byakuya is strangely ambivalent, Nanao intensely supportive, and Aizen – Aizen is mad. 

She can’t bring herself to care any longer. 

Ichigo comes back from Paris in the middle of September. She is in her apartment with her laptop out, sitting at the island she has reacquainted herself with in Ichigo’s absence, clicking through university websites idly, when she hears the key turn in the lock. Ishida has run out for takeout and wine, having pulled the short straw; summer is lingering, too sticky and too humid against her skin. This is when she hates the city most of all.

“Did you bring my wine?” she calls, gaze narrowing at the screen. 

“Something better, I’d think.”

Rukia looks up over the screen, mouth pursed together tightly. Ichigo leans against the doorframe to the kitchen, tired around the eyes and mouth but smiling. Her fingers curl at the edge of the island’s counter. 

“You weren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow,” she murmurs at last. 

“Surprise,” he says with a smirk. 

She closes her laptop as he pushes off the doorframe and moves to her, his hands framing her face His mouth is heavy and warm on hers as he kisses her. He steps between her thighs as her hands come up to his shirt, fumbling at the buttons as his fingers twine in her loose hair, still damp from her third cold shower of the day. 

“You’re a jerk for not telling me,” she breathes into his mouth as she pushes his shirt from his shoulders. It drops to the floor quietly. 

“See? I try to do something nice, and this is what I get,” he grins, teeth hard at her lip. His hands span her waist and lift her onto the island. It leaves her at a height with him, a rarity; she smoothes her fingers over his jaw as his hands slide under the soft hem of her sundress. 

Leaning in, she kisses him softly. “You’re an idiot. I’m glad you’re back,” she says, thinking of post after post online, photos of him and Orihime, him and Rangiku, always at lunch or getting coffee. She knows it’s just business, she knows this; still, there’s always a strange sensation of possession, of wanting something that is just hers, as he’s become. 

One of his broad hands moves away from her bare skin. “Well, this wasn’t exactly what I was talking about,” he murmurs against her mouth. 

She’s so caught up in the feel of his mouth on hers, his fingers skimming up her thigh, that she almost misses the cool press of the ring into her palm. Then, he bites at her lip and she _feels_ it. 

“Ichigo – what –“ she breathes, opening her eyes and looking down at her palm. It’s lovely and simple, a silver band, three small diamonds blinking merrily at her in the orangey light. 

It takes her a moment, and then she looks at him, measuring the strange bareness of his gaze, the softness of his mouth. “Are you serious?” she asks after a quiet spell. 

He leans in closer, his fingers closing around her wrist in an echo of their first touch here, their first date, she supposes. “Yes,” he says quietly, voice very low. “I want – yes.”

She bites at the inside of her lip, face coloring. “I just – I’m not out yet,” she says. 

“If Aizen gets his way, you never will be. I’m tired of hiding. I wanted you with me in Paris this whole time, and I want to go to these stupid parties and have my fucking arm around you,” he says sharply. 

Her mouth twists, legs kicking off the edge of the counter as he stands between them. “That’s so romantic, Ichigo.”

He sighs, exasperated. “Well, what do you want me to say? You know I fucking love you, you know I’m going to support you whatever you decide to do. I just want to be able to do it without checking behind shadows and corners,” he says. 

She rolls the ring in her palm. It feels light, surprisingly. This moment, despite the thick air and the humidity and the weight of him near her and surrounding her, it’s easy, unlike when she signed her first contract or when Byakuya called with the news of Hisana’s overdose. She has months of fights and compromises and bending of conditions and his mouth on hers and his hand at the small of her back in the shadows of parties and events to make the decision for her. 

“I have conditions,” she says at last. 

Ichigo rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “Of course you do,” he mutters, taking the ring from her and sliding it onto her finger. 

“Don’t you want to hear them?” she asks. It feels like a welcome echo.

He kisses her, his hands framing her face, sliding into the thick edges of her hair. “As long as you say yes.”

“Yes,” she breathes into his mouth, her thighs tightening around his hips. He smiles against her mouth, and it feels special. All of his smiles do. 

A week later, with just Ishida and Kaien at the courthouse, they are married. 

She wears Tom Ford. Ichigo notices.

*

It’s still a tricky path of secrecy. She is determined to wait until she is done with Aizen and moving on from the business before she lets anyone else know of their relationship. However, she does move her things into Ichigo’s apartment next door, though Ishida keeps her name on the apartment and lease for practical reasons. 

Still, Ichigo’s career is on the rise and he is in high demand. The ring on her finger is just a symbol, tucked away under chains and necklines in public, and it grates, it wears. December arrives, with one last holiday party, and Aizen is tightening the noose around her, trying desperately to hold onto her. It’s tense meeting after tense meeting, and she comes home to find more pictures of Ichigo and her fellow models, and it combines into something poisonous and too much for her. 

The holiday party is a boiling over of it all. 

*

Ishida pushes a too-full glass of white wine into her hands. “Here. You look like you need it.”

“Is he here yet?” Rukia asks, biting the inside of her cheek. 

His eyes flicker from her face to the fourth finger of her left hand, bare tonight. “Oh Jesus. You’re fighting again.”

Rukia leans against the wall, gaze settling over the wide ballroom. Her dress feels too tight at the ribs, the boning digging into her skin. It’s the Tom Ford dress from so many months ago; she had picked it out days ago, with a smile. Now, it’s just a reminder of how complicated things have become.

Still, she has to come to these events, full of veneers of kindness and friendliness and affection, but that doesn’t mean she has to enjoy it, despite her brother’s cool gazes and Aizen’s greasy placating. 

“When aren’t we fighting?” she offers at last. Her toes pinch in her heels. She glances over Orihime at a distance, mouth curling slightly. A nice girl, earnest, and more equipped for all of this; still she can’t relax fully with her in the room, not after the latest round of rumors on the fashion blogosphere about her and Ichigo.

Ishida leans next to her, pressed shoulder to shoulder. “If you’d go public –“

“It would ruin his career,” she murmurs. “I’m not going to be responsible for that.”

“I don’t think he’d give a flying fuck,” he says plainly, sipping from his vodka tonic. 

“I would,” she retorts. 

“Married people are interesting,” Ishida says lightly. “I bet you could milk it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she says. 

“It matters a little. I’m basically your beard,” he teases. 

She shoves lightly at his shoulder with hers, sipping her wine. “Stop it.”

The room shifts from a muted hum to an excited buzz, the air thickening. Ishida whistles, low in his throat. “Kurosaki’s looking good tonight. You sure you’re fighting?”

Rukia glances over her shoulder, towards the entrance. Ichigo walks in without saying hello to anyone, mouth set and gaze flickering from face to face in the crowd. All black suits him, she thinks as she straightens, but doesn’t move forward. 

“I’m sure,” she says dryly, as his eyes find her. 

“Well, I’m not sticking around for it, then,” Ishida says gaily. 

Her hand latches at his elbow as he moves to push away from the wall and into the mass of the party. “Don’t you even think about it.”

“He’s your legal problem, not mine,” he retorts. 

“I will kill you in your sleep,” she snaps back. 

Ishida grins, teeth too white. His dark hair sweeps across his cheekbones and jaw. “Maybe I’ve changed the locks on the apartment. It’s not like you’re ever there.”

“I’ll be there tonight,” she mutters, watching from the corner of her eye as Ichigo weaves through the enthralled crowd towards her. 

“Honey, that looks like make-up sex face to me,” Ishida murmurs. 

“Could you be more crass?” she shoots back. 

Ishida’s smile is too dangerous. It reminds her of Ichigo; she always forgets how close they are, how much of Ichigo he knows, maybe more than even she does. “Always. But I know you’re sensitive.”

“Not the first word I have for Rukia, but okay.”

She turns and sets narrow eyes on Ichigo as he hovers over them. “Kurosaki,” she says politely through her teeth. 

His face flushes at the cheeks, mouth twitching. “Don’t play with me,” he says, very low. 

Ishida slips his elbow from her tense fingers. “Well. I’ll let you two – “

“Don’t,” she says sharply. Her eyes flicker to Ichigo’s throat. She can see the silver chain there, under his starched shirt. If she were to unbutton it, she would find his wedding band, where it has lain for nearly three months now. 

“We’ll talk to you later, Ishida,” Ichigo says evenly as he grabs onto her wrist. 

All she can do is push her wine glass into Ishida’s waiting hands and follow Ichigo in the shadowy corners and out the side door of the grand room, into a cold fluorescent-lit corridor. “Are you insane?” she hisses. Her hand curls in the heavy black lace overlay of her skirt. 

Ichigo’s grip tightens around her wrist. “You’re not wearing your ring.”

His voice is low, uneven. It’s easy to read the tension across his shoulders, the press and line of his suit. Thick hair curls over the collar of his shirt and jacket, at his shoulders. It used to be longer, much longer; he got it cut for her and she likes it this way, just long enough. 

The corridor is quiet, empty, too bright; this house in all its grandness always felt something like a prison, when she thinks back. It reminds her of her sister dying in a bathtub, of a brother she barely knows. “Ichigo, stop,” she says quietly. 

“You’re just – you’re not _wearing_ it,” he all but snarls as he presses her up against the wall. 

She slides her wrist in his grip, tucking her fingers against his. “I never wear it for events. It’s always like this,” she says evenly. 

His thigh presses between hers, the weight of him pinning her to the cool wall. She can hear thin strains of the party beyond them, but here they are alone. “I’m tired of it, Rukia. I’m done,” he grits out. It’s a picking up of where she left off earlier today, as if she had never stormed out of the apartment that is only his in name. 

Nothing is truly theirs, she thinks. 

“You can’t – you’re out. You’re done. And I’m tired of conditions,” he continues, his fingers tight against hers. 

She watches him and is suddenly exhausted. Her weight rests heavily against the wall. Her free hand rests over his chest, smoothing across the lines of his jacket, the starched press of his shirt. 

“I’m tired, too,” she says quietly. “But I just – I don’t want you to get hurt –“

“Would you think about yourself for _once_?” he interrupts, voice low and thick as he leans in, his forehead pressing to hers. “You haven’t thought about what you’ve wanted in a fucking long time, and that has to stop.”

“I’m allowed to worry for you,” she protests, color high on her cheeks. 

He shakes his head. “Worry for me, whatever. But I’m telling you, I’m _telling_ you I’m fine. If people don’t want to work with me because I’m married, then fuck them.”

Swallowing hard, she tips her head forward and kisses him, her lips sliding slowly across his. “It’s still-“

“And if anyone says shit about you, I’ll take care of it,” he says against her mouth. 

“I can take care of myself,” she retorts sharply. 

He grins a little, hair falling across his brow. “Great. Then let’s actually do this shit and take care of each other, okay?”

She shuts her eyes and kisses him again, warmth unfurling in her middle. His hand moves from her thigh, the scratch and press of lace, to his jacket pocket. 

“I brought it with me,” he murmurs, sliding the ring onto her finger. 

“Always prepared, aren’t you?” she asks dryly. 

There’s that dangerous smile of his again, curling and peeling over his teeth. His hands slide over the loose folds of her skirt and push up, just as he lifts her against him. “Well, you did pick this dress.”

The hum of the music inside reverberates through her as his fingers slide between her thighs, rolling at her clit. She pushes back against him, her grip easy and teasing on his length. He’s hard against her thigh, his mouth hot on her throat. She can feel the breath against her skin, and soon she’s wet and easy against his touch. 

“Poor Tom,” she breathes as he slides into her, a low moan curling out of her throat. 

Ichigo laughs softly, mouthing along her jaw as he moves in her. “This is my favorite dress of yours, though.”

“I’m so surprised,” she murmurs. Everything feels sticky and soft and warm around her, in the lonely hallways of her youth. She leans forward to catch her mouth with hers, her hands framing his face, catching in his hair. 

She comes, moaning into his mouth and trembling against the weight of him. He breathes _wife_ against her mouth and it sends another shiver through her, even as he presses deep within her and shudders, his hands digging and curling into her thighs. It’s enough; it’s more than enough, she thinks. 

The lace has imprinted onto her skin. She can feel the indents as she smoothes out her dress, waiting for him. He has the silver chain holding his wedding band in his hand, watching her carefully. 

“I want to be sure,” he says quietly. 

She smiles and moves to him, skin still overly flushed. Her fingers are light and easy on the chain; she peels the band away and slides it onto his finger. Their hands fit and clasp together as he tucks her into his side, his mouth touching her brow. With him at her side, she’s ready to be something other than a Kuchiki.

“I’m sure,” she says. She can feel his smile against her skin. It echoes hers, and she isn’t afraid.

*


End file.
